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^oems 

Bi) ORLANDO PHIKEAS BISHOP 



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DEDICATION. 

This second Booklet of Rocky 
Mountain Poems goes forth to the 
friends who love God's out of doors 
and who have traveled and refreshed 
themselves in the great Rockies. 

The volume is especially dedicated 
to those who have visited the scenes of 
my boyhood in my native mountain 
home. 

ORLANDO PHINEAS BISHOP. 



ClAGy4Ul2 






\ 



MY FIRST recollection of my father is in the mar- 
ket garden. Father and mother were pioneers in 
Colorado. They homesteaded twenty miles 
north-west of Colorado Springs and near Pring 
Station. I was born there. Glenn Park, Palmer Lake and 
Monument, were thriving little villages filled with tour- 
ists from the east. My father ran a market garden and 
carried the vegetables, together with the butter and eggs 
and cottage cheese, to those towns for our livelihood. 
It is stated by my mother that when I was four years old 
I took my place in the garden by my father's side, pulling 
the weeds out of one row of lettuce or radishes or onions 
or peas; while father would take two or three or four rows. 
This must be accurate because my first memories of my 
father are in the rows of lettuce and onions in that 
beautiful garden in the twenty acre valley just at the foot 
of Green Mountain. 

Years passed by. I had moved out on the Divide in 
the great potato and wheat country, and was running 
our farm and living with my grandparents. Father and 
mother lived in Colorado Springs, and were educating 
the younger children. Usually when I went home I 
found my father in his beautiful garden. 

Again the years sped by. I had graduated from 
college, and was pastor of the First Baptist Church in 
Bozeman, Montana. I was crossing the continent; and 
went through Colorado to see my people. Father lived in 
another part of the city then; and I was directed to his 
house. As I came down off the brow of a little hill, I 
saw my father standing in the middle of his beautiful 
garden — a wonderful garden — talking to my Uncle Samuel. 
Very earnestly I said, "Is that so?" And my father looked 
up and said, "Well Sam, there's Finnic." 

From my Kansas City home. I made one of my last 
visits to Colorado Springs to find my father in the garden 
of flowers in the front yard. He took me by the hand 
and led me around into one of the most exquisite gardens 
I have ever seen in my life. Many of my sweetest mem- 
ories of my father are of him in his gardens, which he 
kept very, very beautifully. 

Hence this poem, "To the Market Gardener." 



TO THE MARKET GARDENER 



I 



N a garden in the mountains. 

Where the breezes from the pine 
Whisper to the murmuring fountains, 
I recall you, father mine. 



'Twas a garden not of roses ; 

But of beans and peas and corn ; 
There my daddy worked 'till evening 

From the very early morn. 

We were small and helpless kiddies. 
And were in a country wild ; 

But my dadd}^ ran that garden 

For the good of every child. 

To the little towns and hamlets, 

Twice a week our father went, 

With the products of our garden ; 
He was on a mission bent. 

In the twilight and the dawning, 
In the sunshine of the day. 

Father worked and toiled and whistled. 
And he had no time to play. 

Years had passed and I, returning 

To the Colorado pines 
Found my daddy in the garden 

Toiling, hoeing, 'mid the vines: 



Looking up with eyes of meaning, 

That no words could quite explain, 

Said he to my dear old Uncle, 

"Here's my boy come home again," 

Then he led me thru his garden, 

Thru the lettuce, beans and peas, 

Thru the winding vines of pumpkin. 

Thru the corn almost like trees, 

Smiled so fondly in his garden ; 

Gathered flowers with deepest joy ; 
Beamed upon me in his laughter 

Glad again to see his boy. 

Now the garden path is lonely ; 

Father's step is heard no more ; 
For him, life on earth is finished, 

And his earthly gardening's o'er. 

But he's gardening up in Heaven — 

There the flowers blossom fair — 

And he's watching in his garden, 

For he longs to greet me there. 



Written, midnight June 1, 1922, at the close of my first 
day in my sixth year's pastorate in Bales. 



DREAMING OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS 



FAR up in the Rocky Mountains, 
When the air is pure and fine ; 
And the odors of the Sruce trees 
Blend with fragrance of the Pine ; 

Where the mighty, awful mountain 

Peaks stand high and line on line, 

And its hillside crests are covered 

With the beauteous Columbine ; 

Where the breezes whisper sweetly, 

And the stars so brightly shine ; 

Where the tie camp and the sawmill 
Are but relics of old time ; 

There I gathered many a wild flower, 

When my youth was in its prime ; 

And the luscious wild raspberries. 
In the blessed summer time. 

I'm a busy man and burdened 

With the glorious tasks sublime. 
In the heart of a great city. 

Where the lights do brightly shine. 

But I'm dreaming of my mountains. 

Of the moss and flower and vine, 

In the grand and glorious Rockies 
Where I loved so to recline. 

You may climb the Alps and others ; 

You may travel on the Rhine ; 
But for me it's Colorado, 

For the Rockies they are mine. 



Written June 3, 1922. in the office of my' printer friend, 
Mr. Lewi.s H. Everett. 



THE SCENERY AROUND PIKES PEAK 



A 



S I climb up the trail towards old Pikes Peak, 
There's a mountain named Eagle Crest, 

There, with sunburned cheeks on a summer 
day. 

Do travelers stop to rest. 

There's a deep blue lake that they call Moraine, 
'Mid the trees of spruce and pine ; 

There are mountain craigs so high and so grand, 
Covered o'er with Columbine. 

There's a burro trail and the great Cogroad ; 

And the winding auto way. 
There are canyons so deep and so mighty 

One might look and dream all day. 

There are rocks, world old, which are huge and 
rough ; 

They seem to reach to the sky ; 
There are silent trees of most every kind — 

The pine, two hundred feet high. 

On dear old Pikes Peak in an awful storm 

Of snow and of hail and sleet, 
We sat beside the winding auto road 

And the travelers did we greet. 

On the summit we stood at close of day 

And looked on the scenes sublime ; 

The wide plains reached out over many states, 
We saw thcni from time to time. 

Having seen the world, both the new and the old. 
There is nothing quite so grand, 

As the sights you behold from old Pikes Peak 
When on the summit you stand. 

Written Friday, August 25th, 1922. On the trail of Eagle 
Crest, on the way to Pike'.s Peak. 



THE BURRO TRAIL UP PIKES PEAK 



u 



P the rugged side of old Pikes Peak, 
Where the trees are dwarf and frail. 

Where the cold wind fans the traveler's cheek 
Is a winding Burro Trail. 



In early dawn of a summer day 

With our pace much like a snail. 

We were off with the sun's first gleaming ray ; 
For the summit we would hail ! 

As we climbed thru trees so tall and fine, 

We heard the coyote's scream ; 
Thru the balsam fir, the spruce and pine, 

Ah, now it seems like a dream. 

'Mid the mighty rocks the trail was plain, 
But the day was cold and bleak ; 

First came fog and clouds and then the rain ; 
So deafening that none could speak. 

When the storm had passed ; and the sun came out. 
We were cold as cold could be ; 

Below it looked like a water spout ; 

And the lightning struck a tree. 

We had climbed up thru the stormy clouds, 

We looked dowu on all below ; 
The mountains were dressed in perfect shrouds ; 

And still higher did we go. 

Our breath came quick ; and we gasped for more ; 

With bodies trembling and cold ; 
The clouds below like the ocean shore ; 

And still the thunder rolled. 



Weary and tired and sore of feet, 

With their strength now almost gone, 
Many straggHng travelers did we meet, 

And they all looked sad and worn. 

We climbed all day long 'till 4 o'clock, 
Up the mountain side so steep, 

Passed worn out trees in the solid rock; 

Though we now could scarcely creep : 

Saw the timber line stretched far below; 

But there in a sacred spot. 
Where the sun had melted world old snow, 

I found a forget-me-not. 

But when we had climbed so very high. 
In the air so pure and sweet, 

We stood in the blue and azure sky 
On the summit of Pikes Peak. 

As we stood on that majestic height. 

And looked on the world far down, 
The setting sun made a golden light 

On the distant mountain crown. 

The sights we saw from that lofty peak, 
So beauteous and sublime, 

Are far beyond human words to speak, 
Of that grand and glorious climb. 



Written Bales Study. Kansas City. Missouri, July 3, 
1922. 



THE BISHOP CAMP 

(Elevation 9,100 feet in the Rockies.) 



WHEN the birds begin to sing 
In the mountains in the spring. 
And the sun begins to creep, 
O'er the lofty mountain peak; 

When the mighty canyons ring 
With the music wild birds bring, 
Then my heart is at its best 
For I'm longing for the West. 

When the trees and everything 
All leaf out around our spring. 
With its water, cold as ice, 
I tell you, it's mighty nice. 

Yonder on the old pine stump 
Is a tiny, wee, chipmunk ; 
And he's sitting on his legs 
As for food from us he begs. 

Ah, he sees we're from afar, 
And he wonders who we are ; 
But he finds we are his friend 
As our goodies him we lend. 

At the falling of the night 
When our campfire's burning bright. 
With the beds made in the tent 
There we laugh and play, content. 

In the early morn I rise 
Take a look o'er earth and skies ; 
I cook breakfast, 'tis no joke. 
And I 'waken all the folk. 



We have bacon, ham and eggs, 
Apple jell and chicken legs, 
We have coffee, steaming hot — 
Always make a great big pot. 

Then I fry some more hot cakes 
For the hungry peoples' sakes ; 
And I cook and work and puff 
'Till they cry, "We have enough." 

Then we fix a fine big lunch. 
Get together our whole bunch ; 
Then we up the old trail strike 
Off to take an all day hike. 

Back again at set of sun 
With one more day's hiking done ; 
Eat our supper ; pop some corn ; 
Go to bed and sleep 'till morn. 

When our camping's at an end 
And our hearts do homeward bend, 
For engagements we must keep, 
I'm so sad I almost weep. 

And my heart it always thrills 
When it's time to climfb the hills ; 
To our Peaks I'm bound to go 
Out in old Col-or-a-do. 



Written in Ontario, Canada, June 13, 1922. Dedicated 
to my distinguished friend. Mr. Lewis W. Downie. 



THE LITTLE WHITE SCHOOL-HOUSE 



N 



EAR the foot hills of the Rockies, 

A white school-house stands in the pines ; 
Though years have sped by so swiftly 
My heart still those memories entwines. 

I was a lad of six years old 

When my father came home one day 
And said, "In two weeks more, my boy, 

Your school begins, now run and play." 

It seemed the time would never pass. 

But at last came that happy morn : 

And with the breaking of the day 

I was up and with chores all done. 

To school soon was on the long way ; 

To that little house in the hills, 
O'er mountain roads in the valley. 

By murmuring, rippling rills. 

Mister Van E. Rouse was teacher: 

As he rang that first school bell 

We all ran in to the school-house, 
How T recall it all so well. 

Van Rouse, a man who walked with God, 

Said, "Now let us sing some good hymns'' 

And we sang, "Yield Not to Temptation" — 
And "Ring the Bells of Heaven. Ring," 

Then he read to us from the Book ; 

Now it seems it was from the Psalms 
And we bent in prayer as he prayed, 

With faces bowed low in our palms. 

Years have sped by: I'm getting gray; 

And life seems shorter to me now 
Than those days when father told me 

Of school ; ah, to time we all bow. 



N>ow returned after forty years, 

I am sitting among the pines 

Looking down at the school whose 

Fond memories my heart entwines. 

When Van Rouse prayed on that first day 
He won me to God and his love ; 

Now this tribute I gladly pay 

Looking down from these heights above. 

Daddy's gone to his home above; 

And my mother stoops with the years ; 
My school mates live I know not where ; 

And my eyes are filled with tears. 

But I sit on the mountain top and dream 
As I look down on all below 

Of the great school Master with the bell 

Who will call us to Heaven, I know. 

Will the school-house be white up there, 
As the Savior stands at the door, 

And rings His bell to us below 

As He rang as in days of yore? 

Van Rouse will be there to greet me 

And my daddy will be there too. 

I want to be there when He rings. 

And I'm hoping that I'll meet you. 

Little white school-house far below ; 

That dear day will live in my soul ; 
When to you I first went to school 

And I'll love you as ages roll. 



Written August 11th, 1922, at the Summit of Green Mt., 
Colo., as I sat looking- at the little white school-house at 
Pring- Station, where I first went to school. Dedicated to 
my distinguished friend, and first school teacher, Mr. Van 
E. Rouse. 



A CAMPING TRIP IN THE ROCKY 
MOUNTAINS 



UP in the mountains so lofty and high ; 
Way up where the hill-tops near touch 
the sky; 
There we sat talking by camp-fire bright, 
Watching the stars in the darkness of night : 

Sat by our camp-fire popping some corn, 
Helping the time to pass until the morn ; 
Tired we were from the climb of the day ; 
Started had we at the sun's first bright ray. 

Children were there in our camp in the hills, 
Romping and playing in meadow and rills, 
Women, well bred, from the cities had come 
To seek for the rest of our quiet home. 

Men, who were sick of the strenuous grind. 
Leaving their cares in the cities behind, 
Seemed to return to the child life again, 
Played in the sunshine and laughed in the rain. 

Up in our mountains where we go to rest 

Are all of the things I seem to love best. 

Up where the butter-cups grow by the streams, 

That's where my heart returns now in its dreams. 

So every summer I long for the rest. 
Far from the cares of life — ^out in the west ; 
In those wild places I long now to roam, 
Back in the scenes of my old mountain home. 

Back in the Rockies steep, covered with pines, 
Up in the canyons where groweth the vines ; 
Up where the bhie-bells grow close to the ferns 
'Tis for those beauties that my heart now yearns. 

Up where the ice lingers late in the spring. 
Up where one findeth most every wild thing; 
Up where but few human feet ever trod. 
That's where a man comes the nearest to God. 

Written Bales Study, Sept. 1, 1922. 



THE EVENING STAR 



WHEN God hangs out the evening star 
I do not know just what you are ; 
1 know you're far up in the sky, 
But cannot tell exactly why. 

They say you are another world, 
That into space you have been hurled. 
That men of might inhabit you. 
And women who are pure and true. 

When I have left the world down here. 
And climbed the heights to you up there, 
Then shall I know why all the night 
You shine so beautiful and bright. 

One thing I know, O evening star, 
That bright and glorious you are; 
Through clouds and rain and storm you shine 
To help these erring feet of mine. 

I think sometimes that you've been given 
A guide-post on my way to Heaven 
Some day I'll tell you, evening star, 
The consolation that you are. 



Written on Wabash train, on tiie evening of June 17, 
1022, approaching Kansas City, Mo. 



MOUNT HYALITE 



T 



HERE'S a place up in Montana, 

Where the air is crisp and cold, 
Where the country's wild and awful 
And the mountains are world old. 



There the days are short in winter, 
And the frost is on the pine ; 

But in summer by the glacier 

Grow the moss and fern and vine. 

And they call that grand place Hyalite ; 

For 'tis surely mighty high ; 
Peaks around that old volcano 

Seem almost to reach the sky. 

In the days gone by, but cherished, 
John M. Peets, my closest friend. 

Went with me to see that country 
And a week up there to spend : 

Took our guns and food and blankets, 

Left the city far below ; 
Climbed by day ; at night we rested 

With no thought of harm or foe. 

Day by day we traveled upward 

Thru the mountains tall and steep, 

While at night we slept and rested 
In the canyons dark and deep : 

'Till we reach the glorious Hyalite ; 

Where the air is pure and fine ; 
In the evening built a fire 

By a great pitch stump of pine : 

Cooked our supper ; then retired 

When the stars were shining bright. 

Wrapped ourselves up in our blankets, 
Soundly slept thru all the night: 



Waked to see the sunshine beaming ; 

Looked about us there, and lo — 
In the night while we had slumbered 

There had fallen lots of snow. 

In that old volcano Greater 

Where we rambled by the hours 
Sweetest things on earth I've greeted 

Were the dainty mountain flowers. 

Daisies with their golden faces 
All day following the sun, 

Went to sleep in early evening 

As if life for them were done. 

But they opened in the morning, 
Bound to bloom another day ; 

Seemed to drink in all the sunshine, 
Did not miss a single ray. 

Then one night there came a wild-cat, 
Walked around our blazing fire ; 

We got wood of pine and ualsam, 

Made the flames leap ever higher: 

Saw his eyes like balls of fire, 

Heard his hideous, awful scream ; 

Glad we were when morning coming- 
Sent the sun's first golden beam. 

There's a spring up there in Hyalite 
And it's water cold and clear, 

Works its way across the crater 
O'er the little valley there. 

When it's gotten 'cross the valley 
And has reached the outer wall 

It leaps downward o'er the prec'pice. 
In a mighty water-fall. 

On a peak far up in Hyalite, 

'Way up on the rugged crag 

Lives a Rocky Mountain Eagle 
And of him I love to brag: 



Saw him sitting on his granite, 
On the high and rugged bars; 

Then we saw him flying upward 

'Till he almost reached the stars. 

We saw deer and bear and squirrels ; 

Saw the elk and mountain lion ; 
Killed small game and roamed and hunted ; 

Killed a huge old porcupine. 

How we rested in the mountains ; 

Drank from all the springs and rills ; 
Roamed o'er lofty peaks so lonesome ; 

Thru the canyons, o'er the hills ! 

We had rest and recreation, 

From the toil and cares of life; 

Not a sorrow, not a burden ; 

In our hearts we felt no strife. 

Now the years are swiftly passing 

Time is flying, so they say, 
But I'd love to roam those mountains 

As we did that other day. 

Travel all the wide world over, 
I am sure that no man meets 

Better comrades for the mountains. 

Than my good friend, John M. Peets. 

Climb the Alps and all the others. 
Trail the peaks of lofty height 
But the wildest of the mountains 
Is our rugged old Hyalite. 



Written July 7. 1922. Bales Study. Dedicated to my 
disting-uished friend of other years, Mr. John M. Peets, 
Bozeman, Montana. 



BECAUSE OUR LITTLE BOY HAS GONE 



IT'S awful quiet at our house, 
As still as any little mouse: 
We sit and read and stretch and yawn 
Because our little boy has gone. 

When'er I go to take a nap 
I see his funny little cap ; 
It lies above me on a shelf; 
He left it there— the little elf. 

He'd wake me up most every day, 
For with his "Bampa" he would play; 
At meals before the grace was said. 
He almost always raised his head, 

And shouted, "I want bread or cake. 
For I ain't got no tummy ache, 
Give me some corn, and I do hope 
That I can have some cantaloupe." 

And then throughout that livelong day 
That boy of ours would laugh and play ; 
And when my arms from play were sore 
He'd say, 'Bampa' "Please do it more." 

Last Sunday was a lonely day, 
Because our boy had gone away. 
No more such kids shall we e'er meet 
Until we hear his tiny feet 

Outside our door upon the walk ; 
And once more hear his baby talk ; 
"Here is his cap,' he calls his lid, 
That blessed, romping little kid. 



Written at Colorado Spring-s, Colo., August 22, 1922. 
After Buddy Jr. had gone to hi.s home, in Kan.sas City. Mo. 



WHEN VACATION TIME IS OVER 



T 



HE sun went down in the western sky- 
To rest for another night ; 
The mountains began to disappear 
From the happy traveler's sight. 



Like lightning sped we forward and 
Far out on the sweeping plain 

We came from our west with deep regret 
On a fast Rock Island train. 

The plains were dry and dreary and bare 

For they seldom .see a rain ; 
There were cattle feeding everywhere, 

Though we saw but little grain. 

The night fell fast and we went to sleep 
To rest 'till the gleam of light 

Should wake us to a country new 

And should guide our steps aright. 

When we awoke again the plains had gone, 
And the fields were rich and fine, 

And the tall red barns and houses, white. 
O'er the country, made a shrine. 

The cattle were on the fields and the hills, 
And tall and green was the corn ; 

And the grass and trees were all about us 
As we op't our eyes that morn. 

We knew by the fertile valleys 

And by the clouds and mist and rain 

That our journey had led us secure 
To the fields of Kansas again. 



The towns seemed to be closer together 

As we had sped far that day; 
A great city loomed in the distance 

We saw it from far away. 

The train sped on and the whistle blew 
And we found ourselves in town ; 

'Mid the steeples high and the business blocks 
And things of great renown. 

The tasks come fast and difficult 

'Till they almost break us down ; 

For the throngs we see and always meet, 
In the heart of a great town. 

We work by night and we toil by day 

'Till we seem to find no rest ; 
But we dream of vacation time when 

We shall seek our home out west. 

So we love our work in the city great 

And we do our tasks alway 
For we dream of mountains, great and high, 

And old Pikes Peak highway. 

We think of the hillsides rough and steep. 
And the moss and flowers and vine, 

Of the streams and springs, the rocks and trees- 
Of the spruce and fir and pine. 

So we'll wait until another year 

Brings the summer back again 

Then we'll turn our faces to the west 
Far out o'er the Kansas plain. 



Written on the Rock Island train, en route to Kansas 
City, August .30th, 1922. 



GOD OF THE MOUNTAINS AND THE 
CITIES OF THE PLAINS 



I 



HEARD as I climbed up the mountain so high 

A mighty and awful roar ; 
It came louder each blast than storm tossed sea 

Upon the cold, rocky shore. 



'Tis only the wind in the pine trees above — 

Far up on the lofty hills ; 
O'er the ice frozen deep on the brooklets 

And murmuring mountain rills. 

As I climbed up the rugged pathway so steep, 
Where only the brave have trod, 

It seemed I was being lifted that day 
Into the presence of God. 

Pikes Peak standing o'er me so lofty and proud, 

' His snowy cap in the sky ; 
I knew I had come to a sacred spot. 

And then came the question, "Why?" 

I looked on the valleys below me out there — 
Far out o'er the sweeping plain. 

I know that God cami and stood by me there; 
And His answer came again : 

"The people live down in the valleys below 
Where the fields are rich and fine. 

There the streets are crowded with those in need ; 
There many a heart doth pine. 



Oh, what will you do in the city for Me? 

The people, so good and true, 
Those people, for whom even I gave all, 

Are calling today for you." 

"I will strive to do better each day I live; 

I'll follow your every plan. 
In the city far down on the plains below, 

I'll answer the call of man." 

Then the lengthening of the shadows I saw ; 

And the winter night fell cold ; 
Then a million stars in the sky of blue 

The universe story told. 

Said I, "What is man thou art mindful of him? 

And why dost thou care for me?" 
God said, "I have made the world for mankind, 

From the mountains to the sea. 

Oh, go to my people and tell them of Me, 
Go tell them my wondrous love ; 

I send you down to the cities below 

From these mighty Peaks above. 

Yes, I send you down from the mountains so high 

To cities where people live ; 
I have met thee here and instructed thee 

The message I'd have thee give." 



Written at the Half Way House, Pikes Peak, Colorado. 
January 25, 1922, ^-.00 p. m. 



TO THE TREES 



OH, the trees, trees, trees, 
See them swaying in the breeze ; 
How they bend and wave and straighten. 
How they lift their stately form 
In the wind and in the storm. 

Oh, the leaves, leaves, leaves, 
See them hanging on the trees, 
How they tremble, gleam and glitter ; 
How they show their magic charm 
In their world so free from harm. 

Oh, the limb, limb, limb. 
How it holds with strength so grim ; 
See its arm of power and beauty ; 
How it helps the tree to climb 
To a majesty sublime. 



Written at 1300 Benton Blvd., Kansas City. Missouri. 
June 10, 1922. 



(Copyright 1922, O. P. Bishop.) 



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